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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257752">i'm too scared to make it through the night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lohoron/pseuds/lohoron'>lohoron</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Silicon Valley (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Childhood Trauma, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Sympathetic Jared, and a good friend, help richard :(, jared is a baby, struggling richard hendricks, they're sad as always</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:33:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257752</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lohoron/pseuds/lohoron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard's slipping. His grades are down, he can't stop acting out in class even when he begs himself not to, and everything he used to love feels like a chore now.</p><p>Jared's there to get him away from the edge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jared Dunn/Richard Hendricks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i'm too scared to make it through the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so basically this is me starting new shit even though i haven't finished like at least 25% of my old shit lol; also i barely write first person so...... bare with me :,)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I've come to understand that people usually don't think the way I do. I don't think so, at least.</p><p>Because there's this kind of whirlwind in my mind that never seems to calm the fuck down and I've realized that nobody ever talks about <em>their</em> whirlwinds, so, naturally, I'm assuming others don't have whirlwinds. Or maybe they also don't wanna talk about theirs. I don't know. After all, my thoughts are really the only ones I'll ever know. Which I think is absolute bullshit. Why hasn't somebody invented something yet to read other people's minds? It just makes sense.</p><p>I jot down<em>make mind reader</em>in the column of my math notebook next to a drawing of a dinosaur and below a sketch of a rocket ship. And yeah, I should be paying attention to calculus. And I definitely should be doing the warm-up problems and taking the notes and watching how my teacher does every equation that I don't know how to do. But, like, I don't really want to. So. Why would I? Shouldn't everything in life be intrinsically motivated? This… is just not motivational for me at this point in time. </p><p>But I guess everything matters less when you're a student. I guess I matter less because I'm a student, right? Adults can yell at me for not paying attention without even attempting to find out why that really is. </p><p>"Mr. Hendricks, do you mind coming up here and completing Marcia's work?" Mr. Rodriguez asks, almost as if he heard my inner spiel about not mattering if you're not paying attention. Naturally, I turn red as he extends the piece of chalk out at me. Naturally, I shrink in on myself and shake my head. </p><p>"I-- uh- was actually. Having. Uh. Some trouble with this one. So. Uh--"</p><p>He rolls his eyes. He's a fucking teacher and he rolls his fucking eyes. "Mr. Dunn?" He sighs, defeated, as Jared gets out of his seat reluctantly and steps up to the board to finish the (frankly simple) problem in question. </p><p>Jared is kinda the only person I've ever talked to about my whirlwind. I think he has one, too. Or maybe a different type of un-calmness that I can't quite fathom. When I told my mom I wanted to kill myself two years ago, she simply replied, "Don't we all?" and moved on with her day. When I told Jared I wanted to kill myself (albeit a lot less blunt; it was more of a 'why am I still here when I don't wanna be' kinda talk), he started texting me daily affirmations. I think he cares. At least a little bit.</p><p>"Richard?" Mr. Rodriguez is suddenly crouched next to me, very clearly seeing my page of ugly doodles and random ideas, "I need to talk to you after class."</p><p>The rest of the class has moved on to the practice problems posted on the board. I didn't even realize they were fucking up there. "Oh. Uh. Okay."</p><p>I mean, it can't possibly be good. I haven't exactly won a math award. Or any kind of award. Jared glances over at me and gives me an empathetic smile and a head tilt, as if to ask if everything's alright. I nod, smiling back reluctantly. </p><p>No, everything's not alright. I'm starting to feel like I'm trapped again and I don't know if it's gonna be easy to claw my way back out.</p><p>My dad tells me I need to do more teenage stuff. Like kissing girls and sneaking out and going to parties. He wants me to be like a mini-him, for purely selfish purposes, I'm sure, and be the CEO of some stupid company. I don't think he understands that I barely have the ability to get up in the morning. That every day feels like an infinite loop of the past day and that it's getting really fucking hard to tolerate it any longer. </p><p>But, whatever, right? Just hormones. Nothing serious.</p><p>The school bell rings and Mr. Rodriguez says his lazy goodbye and points at the homework posted on the board as students already pile out of his classroom. "I'll wait for you outside," Jared whispers, shoving his notebook in his backpack, "good luck."</p><p>I give him a thumbs up and watch Mr. Rodriguez approach with a packet of papers that is unmistakably last week's test. Shit.</p><p>He slams the paper down on my desk and crosses his arms, making eyes at me. Okay. Nice. Totally not startling. In red ink, circled, is my pathetic attempt numerated. 52. Cool.</p><p>"What is this?" He asks, pointing at the number.</p><p>I shrug. "My. Uh. Test from last week?"</p><p>He squints, sitting down in Jared's chair. "Don't be a smartass, Hendricks. Why did you fail?"</p><p>I shrug again, playing with the sleeve of my sweater and looking down to avoid uncomfortable eye contact. "I dunno. I. Didn't have time to study. I guess." I shrug <em>again</em>, and I can tell that he's mad at me. Which is stupid. It's just a test.</p><p>"You've always been good at calculus. What's changed?" </p><p>I sigh. "I just- I didn't study. Okay? So. Hence the bad score." I pick at my cuticles anxiously, bringing my thumb to my lips to bite off a hanging nail. "Can I go? I'm. Someone's waiting for me."</p><p>"I need to see you back after school on Monday, alright? After you've had time to study. I'll let you take the test again." I almost grunt. The last thing I want is to take this stupid fucking test again. But I nod, pack my notebook away, and scurry out of the suffocating room.</p><p>Jared's waiting outside the door like he said he would, concerned gaze evident. I give him a half-smile. "Totally flunked my test," I mumble as we start to head towards the cafeteria. </p><p>"Are you doing okay?" Jared asks gently, tugging on the strap of his backpack. I nod, swallowing the truth.</p><p>"Yeah. I'm. I'm doing fine." It's not very reassuring. But Jared just nods in response, afraid to pry further.</p><p>We reach the cafeteria in silence, walking side by side as we walk over to Dinesh and Gilfoyle sitting in our usual spot. I drop my backpack and sit down, uninterested in having fucking Salisbury steak and roasted potatoes from the cafeteria. Jared sits down next to me, his gaze still concerned. </p><p>"No, you're being a fucking idiot. I'm telling you, Chris Hardwick is a creep. Something's gonna come out." Dinesh rolls his eyes at Gilfoyle, taking a bitter bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. </p><p>Jared's getting out his lunchbox -- same as always. Crackers, celery, carrots, red peppers and hummus and a blueberry crisp Clif bar that he eats purely because it tastes like candy. I admire his consistency. </p><p>"You think the worst of everyone. Chris Hardwick rocks -- go die," Dinesh responds, pretending to be clever like always.</p><p>Gilfoyle flicks his fingers to Dinesh's head and chuckles. </p><p>I feel like I'm not even part of anything. It's like there's a screen separating me from everybody I talk to. It feels impossible to connect. Impossible to even try. </p><p>"Dick, do you wanna come?" Gilfoyle asks, taking a bite of his steak.</p><p>"Uh. To what? Sorry. I wasn't. Paying attention." </p><p>"No problem," Jared smiles, "we're gonna go to the movies after school. Jupiter Ascending?" </p><p>I nod, biting down on my lip. "Yeah, yeah. Sure. Uh. I took the bus today, though. So. I don't have my bike."</p><p>"You can ride on the back of mine," Jared offers, shrugging, "I don't mind. It'll be fun."</p><p>---</p><p>The day only gets worse.</p><p>I don't know why but it feels like everybody's against me. Someone bumps my desk. Monica passes me in the hallway without waving hello. My lead breaks during English class. My chair screeches when I leave to go use the bathroom. I have a panic attack in the bathroom.</p><p>The last thing I want to do is see fucking Jupiter Ascending.</p><p>
  <em>hey jared im not gonna make it to the movies today tell the guys im sorry</em>
</p><p>I type it without thinking. I send it without checking. But my breathing slows a bit in this one by one foot suffocating square box. I check the time, 2:43. School's out in seventeen minutes anyway. Might as well stay here.</p><p>You know how some days, you just feel exhausted from doing absolutely nothing?</p><p>Well, it's kinda one of those for me right now. And the past two weeks. But especially right now. I can't even believe that I'm gonna have to sit with my conscious thoughts for the next, like, twelve hours. Or for the rest of my life. Or at all. I wish I had an off button, because sleeping doesn't exactly work. I pull my knees to my chest and breathe out a little less shallow than before. </p><p>I don't know why this has to happen to <em>me</em>. Why I have to be so cumbered by myself. And that's kind of the thing, right? I fucking hate myself. I can't stand myself. I don't ever want to be near myself again. But for the rest of my stupid fucking life, I'll have to be.</p><p>And it gets worse from there. God, it always fucking gets worse. Why should I even stay? Why? It'll be so much easier to just... be gone. Nothing. A memory of a vague, uninteresting, person that nobody really cares about. It'll be easy. Xanax and vodka. That's what I've established I'll do. Since I was, like, twelve, that's how I've established I'm eventually going to do it. Because I never believed I would live past eighteen. I still don't. And I'm sixteen now. My time's running out.</p><p>My phone dings.</p><p>
  <em>Bummer! I'll let them know :)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Are you sure you're doing alright, Richard? I'm always here for you, you know that.</em>
</p><p>I groan, sliding my phone across the bathroom stall and connecting my fist to my curls.</p><p>This is bullshit. Jared has to be full of bullshit. He's not here for me. Nobody is. He'll listen if I ask him to, sure, but he won't actually... know what to do. It feels like nobody even fucking knows what to do with me. Not even me. God, especially not me. </p><p>It's so much. It's too much. I can't keep fucking thinking. I just wanna fucking stop thinking so much all the fucking time and I can't figure out how to make that work any other way than to kill Richard Hendricks once and for all.</p><p>I'm not scared of death.</p><p>What I'm scared of is the possibility that there <em>is</em> something after death. I don't want a life again. Like. Really. I don't want a life at all. I don't like that there might be some possibility that my thoughts and nothing else will float through the universe, detached and irrelevant from my body. I'm scared that I'll still be able to think but that death is more like... being in a coma. I don't wanna be in a fucking coma. And I don't wanna... attempt and fail (God, the humiliation). And I also don't wanna be reincarnated. None of that shit. I want death to just be death. Gone. Poof. No more Richard. </p><p>That sounds nice. No more Richard. </p><p>I take another breath.</p><p>(Don't start seriously considering this. Please. Don't. People will miss you. Jared will miss you. Gilfoyle will miss you. Dinesh will miss you. God, maybe your teachers might even miss you. Or they'll at least notice; they'll notice that you're gone. Don't do this. Stop thinking.)</p><p>I put my hands over my ears as if it'll do anything and quietly, very quietly, sob into my jeans. </p><p>I'm exhausted.</p><p>And then the bell rings.</p><p>I rush back to my classroom with tears still in my eyes, wiping them quickly, and scoop up my backpack before anybody can even begin to talk to me. I hear Mrs. Woods call out behind me, presumably to tell me how bad my essay was, but I can't even hear it. I can't. If I hear another person say they're disappointed in me, I think I might cry in front of them. And I really don't wanna do that.</p><p>I walk home. I never walk home. It's a bit of a stretch. Takes thirty minutes.</p><p>(Thirty minutes alone, what were you thinking? You should've gone to the movie, get your mind off of things.)</p><p>I'm not even worthy of getting my mind off of things. Besides, I'd just bring the mood down if I was there. I would.</p><p>I start running at some point, and I'm not sure when, but I know my legs hurt by the time I get to my front door. And my head hurts by the time I lay down in bed. And then the rest of it sets in.</p><p>God, it fucking hurts everywhere.</p><p>My eyes are dry and my lips are cracked and my muscles feel weak and overused despite having barely done a thing all day. My arms feel like they've lifted the weight of the world and I'm certain (absolutely certain) that there's a cinder block placed right on my sternum, pressing against me until it crushes me. Until my bones are remains and my heart gets no more blood. No more love. Nothing.</p><p>I raise my hands to cover my face, and it's only then that I notice I've ben crying. </p><p>Does this ever stop? God, will this ever stop?</p><p>Every bad thing that's ever happened, or could possibly happen, comes streaming into me like heroin.</p><p>
  <em>Remember when your uncle used to grope your ass when greeting you at family reunions? Remember when he made you show him your bedroom and trailed his hand up your thigh while you were pointing out your favorite constellations on the poster hanging on the ceiling? Remember when you tore that poster down? Remember when Big Head told you that he had to move schools before the end of the week, and you lost your only friend? Remember when your dad used to hit you because you couldn't, for the life of you, stay silent in class? Because you weren't the son he wanted you to be. Because you were scared and lonely and you didn't have a girlfriend or a friend or any interest in anything at all?</em>
</p><p>Random tears have turned into sobbing.</p><p>Heaving.</p><p>My chest hurts. Oh, my chest hurts so bad. I can't do this anymore. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep thinking about things because there's nothing good to cover them up. There's nothing good at all. I can't remember the good things. Jesus Christ, I want to remember the good things. PLEASE?</p><p>I sit in bed for longer than I can imagine. Trying. I'm trying so hard to find the good stuff. Anything. Something small. Anything, anything, anything. </p><p>I shout into my pillow. Fuck, this is so horribly and clearly a punishment. For all the things I've done wrong. I probably lured Uncle Daniel in. I was probably the reason Big Head moved. I was definitely the reason my dad punished me. It's me. It's me. The only common denominator in all of this bullshit is me. Me. Me. Me.</p><p>I step into the bathroom and stare at myself.</p><p>Who the fuck am I but a collection of self destruction and petty stubbornness? Who the fuck is that scrawny kid staring back at me? God. I want it to end. So fucking bad. Please.</p><p>I open the cupboard and look at my Xanax prescription. There's at least twenty left. How many is enough to die? Fuck. I should've researched this. I can't even kill myself correctly.</p><p>I grab the pills and run back to my room, locking the door. Maybe I won't even need the vodka. I grab my phone and google it.</p><p>(Xanax fatal dosage)</p><p>I go through the first three search results. Fucking useless. <em>What to do if someone overdoses?</em> I don't fucking care. Let me do it. Please.</p><p>I throw the bottle on my bed and race downstairs. Nobody's home. Naturally. Why would they be? I open the fridge, fishing out a half open bottle of vodka. I pour a tall glass while crying. How am I gonna do this without crying?</p><p>I leave the bottle on the counter. It doesn't really matter anyway. </p><p>Running back upstairs, I hear my ringtone going off. </p><p>It's Jared.</p><p>I set my glass down and deny his call, locking myself in my room again. He's texted me two times.</p><p>
  <em>Would you like to get some dinner together, Richard?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll pay!</em>
</p><p>And shortly after I denied his call:</p><p>
  <em>Please?</em>
</p><p>I take a long swig of vodka. It burns all the way down and I shiver as it settles in my chest. I call him back.</p><p>"Hey!" Jared answers, cheerfully. Cheerfully. Fuck. I wanna be cheerful.</p><p>I don't answer. I just sniffle. Twice. Thrice. Until the silence is unbearable. And Jared asks again, "Richard, are you sure you're doing okay?"</p><p>"Jared," I squawk out, "You know. How--" I pinch my eyes closed. I stare over at the bottle of Xanax and then the glass of vodka. My eyes brim again, tears streaming down my acne-ridden cheeks. Fuck. Fuck. I shouldn't do this. Fuck. I can't. I shouldn't. But I can't do the other thing either. The whole being alone thing. The whole thinking thing. The whole living thing.</p><p>(Jared will be so sad. So sad. Jared's used to you. You're gonna disrupt his entire being. Don't do it, Richard. Don't do it. Ask Jared for help. Please. Please. Ask him. Reach out. He's here for you. He's here for you.)</p><p>"Richard, are you... are you safe?" Jared asks in a swallowed breath.</p><p>I gulp and let out a stifled, scared, disappointed, bitter, laugh. "You know- how. How. You said. That I-- I can call you. For anything? Anytime?" I swallow my breath and take another sip of vodka.</p><p>"Yes, of course, Richard, of course. What's wrong? Are you okay?"</p><p>"I'm," I sniffle, "I'm. Too scared, Jared."</p><p>I hear Jared shuffling around. "Too scared for what, Richard?"</p><p>"Too scared to," I drink again, "Too scared to make it. Through the night. I'm. I don't know if I can do it. Jared, I don't know if I can do this. Anymore." </p><p>"I'm on the way," Jared breathes out, "Stay where you are. No. Stay in the living room for me. Please, Richard? Promise me." </p><p>I can't help it. I break down again. Sobbing. Sobbing and whimpering, "Okay, okay, I'm sorry- Jared, I'm sorry."</p><p>"Oh, Richard, you don't have to be sorry," Jared whimpers back (Fuck he sounds like he's crying. I don't ever want to make him cry). And I hear his car start. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Stay on the line with me. Stay with me, okay?"</p><p>I nod before realizing he can't see me. And I stay quiet. I stay quiet and I take my glass (which has gotten me fairly warm and tipsy by now; it's kind of helping; I'm kind of thinking less) and I mindlessly walk downstairs. Scared and empty and feeling like such a burden. He shouldn't have to do this. He's seventeen and he's talking his friend off the edge. He shouldn't have to do this. </p><p>"I'm almost there, hang on, it's okay. You're okay. I promise." </p><p>When he gets here, he opens the door without even knocking. Or ringing. Or telling me.</p><p>He hangs up the phone when he sees me sitting on the armchair in the living room, my phone on the coffee table across from me on speakerphone. He paces towards me gently, closing the door behind him. </p><p>"Hey, Richard," he whispers, soft and sweet and I suddenly remember a good thing. One of the good things. It's Jared. Jared's a good thing.</p><p>I cry harder.</p><p>He kneels in front of me, strolling his fingers over my ankle. Grounding me. Reminding me. "You're okay now," he whispers again. I can't help but not believe him.</p><p>"Will it ever fucking get better?" I manage.</p><p>He smiles, this sad kind of <em>no, but yes,</em> kind of smile. And he leads me to the couch. Leads me to lay down on the couch while he takes my head and places it softly in his lap. I'm embarrassed. I'm fucking humiliated. I can't believe this is happening. </p><p>"It will, Richard," he strolls his fingers through my hair and I flinch but I let it happen as some sick punishment to myself (yes, you deserve to feel uncomfortable), "It'll get better. I promise. I promise."</p><p>"Jared, I'm fucking scared," I mutter, looking up at him through swollen eyes. His eyes are red, too. "I can't do it anymore."</p><p>He hesitates then. </p><p>"Richard. I know how you feel and I want you to know that. It's okay to... be scared," Jared whispers, brushing my hair from my forehead with his lovely, lovely fingers. His hands don't feel like a punishment anymore. "You can do this. And when you can't, I'll be here to remind you that surviving is enough some days. To remind you that there are wonderful, beautiful, pure days among the bad ones. You can do this."</p><p>I don't know.</p><p>It makes me sob a lot harder than I thought it would.</p><p>All I can really recall is grabbing onto Jared's shirt, leaning my face against his chest, and crying. Crying, crying, crying.</p><p>My fingers are desperate, gripping against his sides like it's a fucking lifeline.</p><p>I sob until I feel ill. Until there's no more air inside my lungs and nothing left inside my head. I cry until it's enough. Until I'm calm. And normal. And shallowly breathing next to Jared, my hands on my knees.</p><p>His shirt is covered in tears and snot. Fuck. I feel so guilty.</p><p>"Richard," Jared whispers, resting one of his hands on top of mine on my knee. I tingle. "You mean the world to me. I hope you know that."</p><p>I bite the inside of my cheek.</p><p>I don't know that. I don't believe that. How could I? How could I believe that I mean anything to anybody? God, I hate this. </p><p>"I mean it," He follows, taking my hand into his and scooting a little closer to me, "I adore you, Richard."</p><p>"Stop," I mumble, looking at him through swollen eyes, "I-- Please. I'm sorry."</p><p>"You don't have to apologize," he whispers, his thumb caressing my palm. It's been so long since somebody's held me like this. Talked to me like this. I feel unworthy of his respect, unworthy of his love. "I'll always be here for you."</p><p>I give him a sad smile, and he smiles right back.</p><p>There's a moment where things simmer down. And I feel a bit normal. A bit more normal. God, it feels good.</p><p>It's very quickly overpowered by the fact that I’m tipsy and was just about to down 20 Xanax in an attempt to literally kill myself. Holy fucking shit.</p><p>And Jared’s here. Wonderful, lanky, awkward, perfectly-spoken Jared is here. To watch my demise. No. To reverse it. If he hadn't called me, I would've been in bed with an empty pill bottle on the nightstand. Fuck, that sounds… pleasant. What's wrong with me? </p><p>I can't shake the feeling. The feeling that it's still going to happen soon. That there's really no way out. That I’m meant to off myself. That I've got no chance at living a normal, human life. I must live among the soil in the earth, dirt covering my body. Worms and insects happily feasting on my dead skin. And I’d be completely oblivious, content for the first time in my entire life.</p><p>But maybe things do get better. I don't know. I've got no way to know except to simply wait it out. But can I even do that? Am I even able to? Can I even imagine myself living at twenty-five years old? What the fuck would I be doing? </p><p>“How about we head upstairs?” Jared suggests, shaking me from my thoughts. It's weird how easy it feels to sit here with him. How simple. “Maybe see if you can get some sleep.”</p><p>I look over at the clock. 10:25. Shit. He's been coddling me like a child for like, three hours. How is that even possible?</p><p>“Yeah, okay,” I whisper in response, shakily getting up and leading Jared up the stairs. I walk into my room and I'm immediately aware of the instability of my life and the horrendous inconsistency of being alive. There's piles of clothing on the floor, dirty socks and underwear shoved into corners. I'm embarrassed to let him see me like this.</p><p>But I guess he's really seen everything already. So.</p><p>I take the prescription bottle in the middle of my bed and set it down at my desk, watching as Jared’s eyes follow me. “Richard, do you maybe have a blanket I could use tonight? I get quite chilly.”</p><p>I blink. </p><p>He's staying?</p><p>“You-- you're staying?” I ask, clearly sounding bewildered, while rummaging in my closet for an extra blanket. </p><p>He smiles. Oh, the fucker smiles, and nods. “Of course. I'll help you make it through the night.”</p><p>(And it makes me feel a little bit like a charity case. Usually when people have sleepovers, it's to have a sleepover. Not to prevent a suicide. Pathetic.)</p><p>But it feels nice. So I smile back, tossing him two blankets. “Uh. I've got… a mattress. We can bring it in--”</p><p>“No, no, don't worry about me. I’ll be fine on the floor. Do you have any pillows?”</p><p>It feels a bit surreal, giving Jared two pillows as he settles a little cot on my floor. “I’m gonna. Get changed. Uh. I’ll go to the bathroom--”</p><p>“You can change in here if you'd like. I won't look,” Jared chirps, sitting criss crossed on his blankets. He looks so happy. How does he look so happy? </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>I hide behind my bed, sliding my jeans off. I pick up my dirty pajama pants from the floor and quickly slide them on. My hoodie stays on. My t-shirt stays on. Getting changed really just means changing my pants, huh?</p><p>Jared's in his boxer shorts by the time that I turn back, sitting in the exact same position as before. </p><p>I lay down in bed, letting out a deep sigh. This feels weird. Oh, this feels weird. </p><p>“I wish everything could just, like, disappear for a while,” I whisper, a bit at myself, mostly at Jared, “Like it could just be us two.”</p><p>“Why can't it?” He responds, and I can hear his smile, “Let's have it just be us two for tonight.”</p><p>I breathe out shallow, trying to ignore how good it feels to hear him say it. “Okay,” I whisper back, “That sounds nice.”</p><p>We lay in silence. I appreciate his breathing, his subtle, wispy, breathing. The calm it brings me feels almost unprecedented. And then my mind starts to flood the emptiness with everything that’s bad in the world.</p><p>No, no, no.</p><p>Not again. I can’t fucking take it again.</p><p>“Jared, do you ever think about all of it?” I ask, unprompted. Maybe talking to someone really is the solution. Maybe it really does work. I’ve never <em>really</em> tried it, after all.</p><p>“Think about what, Richard?” He questions.</p><p>I take a breath and roll onto my side. “Like, why we’re here? Not just, uh-- in the way that’s like, why are we alive, but also… like why are we <em>here</em>? In my room? In this state? In this city? With each other?”</p><p>There’s a long pause of silence and I’m worried I might’ve fucked up. Maybe he doesn’t think about this shit. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy now. Richard Hendricks: depressed nerd with no personality. I almost start to cry again.</p><p>“All the time,” he says softly, and I hear him shuffle, “Oh, Richard, all the time. I… don’t know why we get handed the cards we do. I don’t know why you’ve got yours, or why I’ve got mine, but we’ve got them. And. I think the point of all of it is just to try and make it work.”</p><p>I breathe through my nose as I listen to him. </p><p>“I’m lucky to be here with you. I’m not sure who I would be if I hadn’t met you. Maybe the universe has a plan for us, because I don’t think I could imagine my life without you, Richard.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Don’t cry.</p><p>Don’t. Please.</p><p>“I. Uh. I mean. I think I would… be dead. If it wasn’t for you. So. Thanks. Thank you,” I whisper back, and I feel a tear stream down my cheek. Fuck. “Maybe the universe… knew that. Like. That we would help each other. So it moved you here just in time.”</p><p>“Maybe,” I can hear his smile again, “I’m glad you let me in, Richard.”</p><p>I wipe away the few tears that have formed in the corners of my eyes. Fucking Jared, man. Knows exactly what to say to make a motherfucker tear up. “I’m. Me too. I’m glad, too,” I chuckle back, “It wasn’t that hard with you. You’re… you make it easy. To trust. I’ve never shared. Uh. Shared my feelings like this before.”</p><p>“I’ve never had a friend like you before,” Jared says, and I can’t help but smile, “Thank you for your company.”</p><p>“God, Jared, of course,” I beam, “I didn’t even know it was possible. Like. To enjoy someone this much. Because. I usually prefer, uh, being alone. But. I don’t know. I think you’ve kinda changed that. And. Uh. I don’t know. You just… you make me kinda happy,” I nervously mutter out, cheek against my pillow.</p><p>“You make me happy, too, Richard.”</p><p>“Argh, I’m getting so. Sappy. Sorry. I just. It’s so nice. This. You. I can… hardly believe that I, like, didn’t wanna… be alive. Hours ago. Minutes ago. Hah. Maybe you’re a life magician.”</p><p>There’s a little person in my head telling me that I shouldn’t be sharing this much. These feelings have hardly been processed internally, and now I’m just spouting them out like they’re nothing. And the little person in my head doesn’t like that at all. He wants me to shut everybody out. And. And. He wants me to be unhappy and unavailable and <em>dead</em>. But I can’t listen to that, right? I shouldn’t. </p><p>Without a response from Jared, I climb out of bed and land next to him on the floor. We’re face to face, my body on top of the blankets I gave him. He looks soft and content and it makes me want to stay here forever and ever. Something inside me says that this is right. That I need to look at him while we talk. That I need to touch his knees with mine while we wonder why the Hell any of this matters. </p><p>“I hardly think I’m a life magician,” Jared whispers, smiling (and his smile is so nice; so sweet; I can hardly believe that smile is for me). </p><p>“I think you are,” I answer back, wiping my thumb over his cheek. It feels weird. But comforting. Quite comforting. “I hope nobody ever hurts you, Jared. You’re the last person to deserve it.”</p><p>His eyes shine, glossy and wide and wonderful. His lips quirk up and he stares down nervously. “I… I’m tired of getting hurt,” he mumbles, and I notice him tearing up immediately, “Let’s promise just to never hurt each other. Let’s just promise that we’ve got each other.”</p><p>I nod, giving him my pinky to hook against his own, and he takes it, “Promise, Jared.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is so.... vent. literally just vent. :P</p></blockquote></div></div>
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